


Drunk on Night River

by tunteeton



Series: Figure It Out [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is numb, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock is trying, Unestablished Established Relationship, angst ahoy, everybody is unhappy, john feels everything about everything, post series three, sherlock feels guilty about everything, they love each other so damn hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2030445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shared danger night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk on Night River

For most of the time, John really has moved on. He has stopped thinking about it, torturing his mind with all the _what if_ s and _if he'd even_ s. There's only so much one man can take before he has to shrug his shoulders and accept his lot in life. Yes, he'd tried denying, fighting and rebelling, but the time for those has largely passed. Things are as they are, the fences are built and the forts stay strong. End of story. But every now and then these nights happen and all the old sorrows and regrets creep back. And it's like they never left at all.

Losing him, by some stupid mistake, would still be so easy. So unforgivably easy, a slip of a knife or a twist of a finger. He's had enough of the nightmares, white hospital beds surrounded by sterilised machines and above all, he's had enough of the cold gravestone. He's accepted their situation, but this is the one fight he'll never stop fighting. The danger is a given, the recklessness is a given, when one lives with such a man. The real threat lies in the aftermath.

It doesn't happen after every case, or after every rush, but tonight there are two men in guarded hospital rooms, one of whom might never walk again. There's a scared kid reunited with his parents and then there's Sherlock, who's limping and holding his right arm awkwardly. There are bruised marks around John's own throat and the kind of constriction in his lungs that has nothing to do with near asphyxiation.

None of that is new. They've experienced it all before.

None of that triggers it.

The questionable honour goes to the blood, lazily painting Sherlock's face with dark stripes. John can take many things, but that's the one stupid limit he has. Blood on Sherlock's face, blood on Sherlock's chest. It doesn't even have to be his own to leave John in this state. There are too many bad memories, and they just keep on stacking. Why do they always have to aim at his nose?

So when they come in, climb the stairs and start taking stock of the night's damage, John knows he's treading on thin ice. He takes the long route, as he always does, hoping it will somehow make it better. It never does.

“You're limping,” he points out and fails to be surprised when Sherlock shrugs it off.

“It's nothing. How's the throat?”

Honestly, he'd forgotten about his damn throat. There's stupid blood creeping down Sherlock's stupid forehead, forcing him to blink rapidly not to get it into his stupid eyes.

“Oh fine, just fine,” he answers, and then the avoiding is done and he accepts his fate.

“Your face,” he says, and Sherlock stills obediently, sits down and lets him fuss over it. They both know the routine by now.

John hates it when Sherlock is meek for him, hates that Sherlock knows that he needs it. And when he touches those cheekbones, carefully, he doesn't try to mask it for anything else than what it is. It's come to a point where denying is impossible. He inspects Sherlock tenderly, too tenderly, turns his head this way and that, cleans the wound over his eye and feels his lungs give a little when the blood finally drips away. And Sherlock blinks once more and looks at him from under his lashes, and John sees no point in looking away so he doesn't.

“You shouldn't,” he says, and Sherlock's eyes are kind, understanding. John puts a plaster over the wound and it feels like a kiss. Sherlock stares, silent and passive. Hiding this from him is impossible, stopped being possible months ago when Sherlock had woken in the hospital after that horrible night in Leinster Gardens and John couldn't stop crying and shouting at the same time. So, hiding has been impossible for quite some time now, and John doesn't even try. They both know that if John was trusted with the crown jewels, the safety of the Queen herself, he wouldn't care about her as tenderly as he holds Sherlock's chin right now. He wouldn't lay his hand over her shoulder the way he does with Sherlock, wouldn't debate about pulling until her forehead rested against his bruised ribs.

He doesn't pull. He never does. If such gentleness became part of the routine he could just as well jump to the front of the next train leaving Charing Cross. The emotion can't be allowed to bleed from his eyes into his actions.

Well, not too much of it, anyway.

Sherlock looks up at him and waits patiently. It's a skill he's taught himself during these last months, a new stillness which he summons whenever John gets like this. John is both grateful and angry about this time he's being permitted, this chance to reconstruct himself.

But then it becomes too much, this paralysing, vulnerable trust Sherlock has seen fit in placing on him. John's traditionally had two ways of coping with it, and right now yelling at Sherlock is out of the question. The blood was spilled for a good purpose, the kidnappers are caught and the child is at home. John can't bring himself to disregard that. And anyway, it's not Sherlock who's cradling the other's head here. It's not Sherlock who's looking at John like he was the most irreplaceable thing in the world.

“I got to go,” John says and turns to flee his personal crime scene. He's becoming a fucking repeat offender, and this isn't them. They've stood too long on the precipice, stared at the shared abyss below. Theirs is the kind of relationship where sacrificing one's life, one's happiness, goes without saying. There isn't going to be any next, mythical step. Just too long looks and aborted phrases, and then these nights, the worst of all, hiding and fleeing and always, always returning in the end.

“I got to go,” John repeats, because that's the second way he has to cope and he can't say any of the things he's thinking about. His hand is on the handle when he hears Sherlock's response.

“John,” he says, and it's so quiet John has to acknowledge he'd been listening, that he wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't known it was coming.

“John,” Sherlock says. “You shouldn't...”

This is good. This opens the path for yelling after all. John turns around, grateful that he doesn't have to leave, that Sherlock is willing to carry his anger and his sadness once again. But then he actually sees the man and understands.

This time, it wasn't for his benefit. This time, Sherlock was serious. John really shouldn't leave, shouldn't leave him alone this night.

He looks... wrecked, and sad, and fidgety. There's no challenge in his expression, just the kind of tiredness you can spot in the eyes of a man for whom every moment is a fight.

“I don't think,” Sherlock starts, and John nods before he's reached the end of whatever it was he was about to say. He doesn't think either.

So, he can't leave Sherlock here. He can't yell at him, not when Sherlock's actually asking, making himself even more vulnerable. Honestly, is there no end to the well of hurt they can pile on each other? John's breath leaves his body in a dismayed wave. He's running out of options here. Staying is the worst of the bad lot left for him, for them both.

“Come with me?” He asks, and yes, he knows it's a compromise, and yes, he knows that Sherlock doesn't do compromises, and yet he doesn't even bat an eye when the man only hesitates for the slightest moment and then nods, once. John opens the door, they descend back downstairs and return to the windy London night.

The two men stroll in silence, destination inconsequential. Sherlock is still limping slightly, letting John decide the pace and the direction of their nocturnal walk. It's a surprise to no one that they find themselves in a park, slowly heading south, towards Thames. Neither of them are willing to break the calm of the night, each fighting their own demons under the polite surface. For Sherlock, John suspects it's the cravings of an addict, the one side of himself he'd kept tightly under lock and key for so long. For John himself it's the old dilemma, renewed now that the divorce is finalised, that Sherlock took him back to Baker Street like it was a non-issue, that he found his old room untouched and his last possessions there exactly as he'd left them.

He won't say a shrine, won't even think of the word, because he still remembers what losing Sherlock was like, what the cold stone felt like under his aching fingers, how impossible it was to pack that incredible life into boxes and send it away. But in the end John had moved out, been unable to function in the middle of the old, haunted memories. He doesn't know if it makes Sherlock stronger or madder of the two of them that he likewise hadn't touched a thing and yet kept on living there. John imagines him now, alone, witnessing the shards of their life together get buried under the unrelenting advances of dust and time. And then, when John had needed it the most, he'd opened the doors for him once again, letting him witness that silent testament, put him into bed and played his violin through the night.

And then these nights started to happen.

But it's the same Sherlock who said _human error_ , the same man who said _chemical defect_ , the same self-proclaimed sociopath. John has witnessed him kill, and die _twice_ , and lie more often than he can count, and at some point Sherlock has grown to be a puzzle of unfitting, contradictory pieces. John feels like he has gathered all those pieces, and the universe is just waiting for him to put them together, but half of them have teeth and the other half he doesn't understand. Maybe Sherlock's puzzle is non-Euclidean. Maybe he's not at all the same man John met all those years ago. Whatever the reason, it has led them here, with a Sherlock who's at times too gentle with him, too indulging and then a moment later the way he used to be, Before. And John himself, dancing on the edges of his flame, unable to come closer for the fear of burning, but retreat isn't an option either, because without Sherlock he'd freeze to death in moments. He's tried both. The agony of this middle ground isn't better, really, but at least this way they can both hang onto some shards of independence.

The night is meandering in a way nights in big cities tend to be. It's not dark, but there isn't any light. It's not quiet, but the sounds are not loud. It's not devoid of life, and yet they don't meet anyone on the streets. And then John sees the river, and remembers his companion's leg.

“You shouldn't,” he says again, but Sherlock only grunts in reply.

“It's nothing,” he repeats, and keeps on walking until they're on the bridge, leaning over the railing and staring at the dark water moving lazily towards Greenwich.

“Yes, it is,” John insists, because he's lost in the cold water already, and only remembers the blood and what it feels to just hold on and never think of letting go. “You can't just...”

“I can't what?” Sherlock asks, and it's the part of him which still has teeth, the untamed abrasive part, but John can't shut his mouth, not with the wind in his hair and their time slowly, slowly ticking away like water under the bridge.

“I can't,” he answers miserably, because he knows it's a lie. “We can't.”

“We can't what?” Sherlock snarls, as if John's the one who's being unfair, who permits the touches and the tenderness and doesn't make him look away.

And maybe he's not quite awake, or quite dreaming, or maybe he's feverish and not responsible of his actions, or maybe he's just drunk on the night river, but suddenly there's a gun in John's hand, and his fingers flick the security off, and the cold muzzle of the thing is pressed into Sherlock's side, and for a second, the world makes sense. This, too, is nothing new.

This, too, will pass.

“Because it's like this, with us it's always like this,” he whispers, fierce, leaning forward until they are pressed together, and Sherlock is a rigid rod of muscles between him and the stones of the bridge. And then his gloved hands are around John's, not trying to take the weapon away but guiding it, resetting it.

“No. Like this,” Sherlock answers, and presses the gun against his own chest, over that place which will forever carry the scar of betrayal. John stares at it. Sherlock pushes against him, against the weapon on his marked flesh.

“No,” John protests, but his hand is perfectly steady and the body in front of him is warm and accepting. “You can't keep doing that. It's not like that. Can't you see? This isn't right!”

Sherlock, bless him, does see it, and suddenly there are leather-clad fingers digging into John's throat, diligently placed over the earlier bruises, just hard enough to make his blood sing gratefully. John breathes, and breathes, and breathes, and when the black currents of the river become dark spots behind his eyes he collapses into the waiting embrace, never letting go of the gun.

“John. I _am_ sorry.”

It's nothing he hasn't heard before, dozens of times, Sherlock always sporting different expressions, wielding different tones. It's like a bloody experiment. How to Gain the Forgiveness of Doctor Watson. But here, with their standstill made visible, acknowledged, it sounds different than ever before. Is it, too, a piece of that enormous puzzle?

“This isn't good,” John mutters. “I'm not good.” He wants to giggle. He wants to push harder, wants to hear Sherlock grunt from the force of it. He never wants to see him bleed again.

“I don't know if I can keep doing this,” he finally admits, and only then realises that that was the actual truth. “I can't trust you not to break my heart again.”

The river splashes against the stone pillars of the bridge. The wind pushes John further into Sherlock's heat. A group of teens walk past, wolf-whistling them, not seeing the gun being pushed into the heart scar. It doesn't matter. John isn't protesting now, not tonight.

Not during any of these nights.

“I can't trust you not to break my heart again,” Sherlock echoes, and he, too, sounds old and tired. His leg gives a little, but John's weight keeps them upright, pinned against the hard stones.

“Is this how we end?” John asks and almost hopes for it, for the waters of oblivion and Sherlock's fingers closing tight around his throat once more. But he gets a shake of a head as an answer, pale eyes going even paler.

“No. This is how we rebuild,” Sherlock says, and when John doesn't respond he continues. “John. I told you before, I can't do this alone. I don't know how. I've tried. Can't you see me trying?”

“I'm pointing a gun at your heart,” John notes aloud. He doesn't know how to take those kind of words from Sherlock, and anyway it sounds like a valid argument for their continued process toward entropy. Sherlock doesn't seem to agree.

“No. _I'm_ pointing your gun at my heart. You have trust issues, you see. Please, John. You're the bravest man I know. You have to lead here. I don't know how.”

Briefly, John allows himself to be weak, to lean his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. He can feel him breathing, feel his heart beating. Feel his own finger release the trigger. It feels like giving up. His body immediately goes back into battle mode.

John Watson is not built to give up. Sherlock, meanwhile, rambles on, apparently unaware that the countdown has started in John's body.

“You have to understand, John, for the past three years most of my actions have been motivated by one thing and one thing only.”

John considers finding the trigger again, wonders where exactly he should point his gun. His free hand raises out of its own volition, finds a home around Sherlock's long, impossible, vulnerable neck. The clock ticks down.

“If this is your way of telling me you love me, then I...”

“No,” Sherlock cuts him off, wounded. “It's my way of explaining myself to you. You said you didn't understand, back then. I've been trying to help you understand.”

“All these nights have been about understanding?” John asks, knowing his voice takes a cruel twist as the countdown reaches zero. He pushes down then, forces Sherlock's lips over his own, bites straight into his mouth.

He doesn't know if it'd make it better or worse if Sherlock would, even once, fight back. But he never does, not even with John's gun drilling into his ribs and John's teeth bruising his lips. No, he just goes soft and gentle, holding John up when his leg betrays him, giving everything that is demanded from him.

They probably shouldn't be doing this in the middle of the night, slumped together on a bridge over Thames, but what the Hell. John decides to cut the chase.

“I won't fuck you tonight,” he says, even while he feels Sherlock's free hand, the one not holding John's gun to his own heart, work his trousers open.

“I know,” Sherlock murmurs, because of course he would. And somehow, despite being crushed between John and the bridge, he finds the room to drop to his knees and demonstrate that they've done this often enough for him to have become an expert.

The river flows by. John has one hand over that stupid plaster on Sherlock's forehead and the other on the gun, now pressed into that invaluable temple as he bucks into the welcoming heat. He stares at the water, bites his teeth together. He'd like to think that he's helpless to stop it, but of course he isn't. Neither of them are. And when he crowds Sherlock against the bridge, hears the back of his head hit the hard stones, he knows this won't be the last time, either.

“If you touch yourself now, I'm really going to shoot you,” he grunts out, just before coming. Sherlock swallows and swallows and doesn't try to protest at all. He never does.

And then it's over and John is panting over Sherlock, still staring at the lazy water below and fighting against tears. Sherlock tucks him gently back in and wriggles out from under him, turns and leans on the bridge next to him.

“I should throw you into Thames,” John sighs, and Sherlock lets out a shaky laughter.

“Would it make you feel any better?” He asks, and John shakes his head. No. No, it wouldn't.

Another morning is approaching. Together, they turn around and return home. Time after time, they return home together.


End file.
